if you're still bleeding, you're the lucky ones
by solitariusvirtus
Summary: Jon Snow chooses to stay at the Queen's side. But such a love as theirs can never find satisfaction. AU! Queenship comes with the wine of grandness and Daenerys has never done anything half-heartedly.
1. Chapter 1

Lips curl in a sensuous smile, silver rivers tumble down naked shoulders, and Daenerys crooks her finger. There is little in way of words that she seems willing to give to him at this point, but Jon doesn't truly mind. The only thing that matters is that they are both alive.

Alive, of course, after a long, gruelling fight. Jon doesn't dare not rejoice. It would akin to spitting on the grave of all who have lost their lives for their countrymen to go on. It is commendable. But more than that it is proof that in the face of great danger humanity is an adhesive factor; it binds all together.

* * *

Ghost growls softly, blood-red eyes looking up at Jon as he cards his fingers through his hair. The burnt hand bears faded scarring that gleams in the light of day. Yet the pain is no longer there and the stiffness is but a memory.

"Come along," Jon tells the direwolf, not bothering to turn and glace behind him after he has begun walking. Ghost always follows.

Without one of the Queensguards leans against the wall, seemingly at ease. Jon levels a hard look at the man and his spine straightens as soon as Ghost snarls.

A queen Daenerys might be, he tells himself then, but she has much to learn about queenship.

* * *

Lady Hardyng's shoulders slump. It is that drop of relief, that moment of unadulterated ease. It makes her look younger, look like the child he remembers, that girl who adored songs and tales of knights. Sansa cradles a small babe in her arms and another child hangs onto her skirts, innocent eyes gazing up with curiosity.

"I didn't have the heart to send them away." Her own family has been broken. The explanation is met with a little nod. "Jon, there is so much that I–" And there he stops her.

"The past is done with and gone." He himself has come to terms with all the whirlwind revelations, but he won't share them with anyone.

* * *

They go to the weirwood together, not arm in arm, for even with all the understanding and forgiveness between them, scars are still here. But the atmosphere does not choke Jon, and he thinks this is enough.

"He is good to me," Sansa says, auburn tresses shining in the slight spring sun. "It seems so foolish of me to have doubted him in the beginning. I always though my lady mother knew best on such matters."

"I am glad he brings you joy." He must by the way she smiles just now. For a brief moment, he wonders what their lives might have been had always been as it is now between them. Foolish notions.

* * *

Daenerys sits stiffly upon her throne, not yet used to the cruel kiss of the blades, her form obscured by the heavy robes she wears. "So long as he kneels and swears fealty," she says, eyeing Lady Hardyng, "and provided you and your lord husband see to it that he is raised in the spirit of his vows, I shall be merciful."

It rings odd to Jon's ears. But this is neither the time nor the place to debate with her on the matter. Still, he shall keep this in mind.

"Of course, Your Grace," Sansa responds, courteous to the very tips of her fingers. She gazes at Jon them, a question lingering in those deep blue eyes.

* * *

"Are you certain you wish to remain here?" she questions, simultaneously taking away from the oldest girl one of the fine bone combs with silver ornaments. "Harrold and I would be more than pleased if you came within our home."

"There is no reason to worry," Jon says after a moment of consideration. "I wish to stay." He cannot understand her worry and puts it on the shoulders of the many losses she has suffered. "I must stay here, where I am needed."

"Rickon needs you too," Lady Hardyng points out.

"He doesn't," Jon laughs. "He has you."

"Very well. But I expect that at least my ravens shall be answered to." The younger babe lets out a loud cry, effectively dragging Sansa's attention away from Jon.

* * *

Tyrion looks up from the parchment. "You are in great fortune I should say." The dwarf and his cutting sense of humour never fail to amaze Jon. "She is right mad the Dornish Princess has yet to arrive."

Dorne is not powerful enough to create anything other than a few skirmishes. Not at all worries, Jon sits down in one of the chairs. "The road is long, the Dornish are slow travellers and the Princess has every right to her comforts."

Not that he much cares. Dorne is no longer an important player. Doran is dead and Arianne is but a pale imitation of the man in regards to political wiliness.

* * *

He sits alone beneath the tree and leans his back against it. Ghost has gone off to hunt no doubt and shan't be back for hours yet. The dragons fly as they please and his Queen insists that she must see to some troubles of her Dothraki subjects.

So he enjoys the solitude, from time to time trying to find that trail of consciousness beneath the thick bark. Mayhap remnants of the three-eyed crow are still within, or it might well be that he shall find Bran.

Jon sighs. Thinking of Bran is a double edged sword. There are so many things to be joyful about and at least as many to mourn.

* * *

In such moments one is glad for the lack of company, or rather its reduced number. But Daenerys continues to laugh, her voice light, so at odds with the sentiment of it. "I shan't wed anyone," she tells them both after she has calmed herself. "I am the Queen. I have no need for any king."

To Tyrion it might well be about upholding tradition, But to Jon it is not a matter of that. The hurt stems from her rejection.

And yet how could he not understand. Mayhap if she knew the truth, but that Jon won't tell her, nor to any other. So he merely allows Tyrion to continue with his speech, knowing well that Daenerys shan't listen.

* * *

"Viserys would tell me stories of Westeros," she reminisces, fingers scraping against his shoulder. "I never truly thought I'd see my home." Slowly, her body rises above his. "Do not ask me to give up what I have fought so hard to gain."

"I am not asking you to," comes his answer, belated, even unsure. Jon himself is unsure of what he ought to do. "I would never ask it of you."

But neither can he kill all the pride within himself. Not even for her.

For the moment, however, he enjoys the feel of her lips on his. There is time enough for other matters to be dealt with on the morrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry is the one who plants that seed of doubt in his mind. Without meaning to, of course. As it most often happens, it is little more than an interesting conversation. All the same, nothing remains as it was. And it's the words. Mere words.

"If there is nothing to hide," Sansa's lord husband says, "then why the violent refusal?" Ghost lazily looks up as Harry shifts closer. "She owes her power to her dragons. Three dragons that shall long outlive her. If she plans to leave no heir, then we will be no better than we were."

And it makes sense. Yet Jon does not wish to think upon it in such terms. "That is a pessimistic view."

"I never took you for an optimist, Snow."

* * *

Daenerys pats Drogon's scales. It's in such moments that Jon wonders. He wonders if he should tell her. He wonders if it would be the death of him. After all, there is so much at play here and he could gain a world if only he would speak.

He never does. Not about what he wants to speak of the most.

Nay. Jon has learned that all people have a value only as far as they are useful. Especially to kings and queens.

The great black beast takes off, swirling in the grey skies.

"We should return," the Queen says, holding one hand out. "I still have to attend the meeting of the Small Council."

* * *

"One must know when to let go," Tyrion advises. With the best of intentions, Jon is certain. "Imps and bastards most of all."

"I suppose you have the truth of it, my lord," he says after a short moment of silence. Yet he still wants to know why. He wants to know what it is that he is wanted for. It's growing more and more burdensome. He rakes his fingers through his hair in an annoyed motion.

Tyrion laughs. "You don't. It is clear from the look upon your face. A pity, Lord Snow."

A pity that he does not? Or a pity that it should happen to him. The basted doesn't question the statement.

* * *

Sansa rocks the youngest child, a thoughtful expression crossing her features. "I couldn't say. It seems strange to me as well. But, Jon, she is not one of us."

Striking. One of us. It feels like she's including him in this category. The acceptance produces a burning heat in his chest; it's painful. "She is the Queen," he replies.

The redhead looks up from the child. "Kings and Queens are like flowers, they bloom and then wilt only to fall away. Even those that are of our own. And she is not even that."

If someone like Sansa can think it, Jon shudders to consider what others believe.

The babe in her arms begins to wail, no doubt upset at having been left without her attention.

* * *

One of the Dothraki maids comes running in, in her haste she throws the doors apart and they crash thunderously against the walls. Jon wakes with a start, his heart thumping, hand searching for Longclaw among the warm sheets.

He can't understand a thing the woman is saying, but Daenerys merely nods, replying something in that same strange tongue.

He is calmer now, after the confusion has passed.

"The Dornish Princess is arrived." The Queen slides out of bed, her hair all in tangles. Her skin seems a vast expanse of ice in the low light.

Who could possibly guess she is a being of fire, seeing her now as she is?

Jon stands as well.

* * *

Arianne Martell he sees only after the sun is high upon the sky. Jon has just arrived in the great hall of the kings and the Dornishwoman is already standing against one of the columns, no doubt in wait for Daenerys.

She sees him as well, for the next moment dark eyes burn into his and a daring smile plays upon her lips. But as soon as it has arrived it goes.

And 'tis just as well, for Daenerys has arrived as well, followed by her Essosi companions.

This is the very first time Jon notices that even Lord Velaryon turns a distrustful eye to the horse riders.

He later understands that there have been complaints which have gone unaddressed.

* * *

"There must always be a limit. It is to the discretion of every ruler what they consider to be the limit. But if this belief crosses the belief of the masses and the lords, then that ruler should fear." Maester Wyngren reads this passage out of an earlier work of some maester who has not thought fit to sign himself.

"If there are weeds in the garden, they must be pulled out," Jon says. No doubt that they should.

"But if the weeds have grown all about and within the garden?" A question for the thinkers. "What is there left to save?"

"Whatever it, it must be enough." The bastard turns around and makes his way out the door then.

* * *

It is not the first time he and she have had this disagreement. But Jon insists nonetheless. "You cannot chastise the whole realm for the few you have brought with you. They are all your people."

The Queen sends him a hateful glare. "These people have murdered my parents and my brother. And now they would treat those who have followed me from Essos, the first who believed in me, poorly. I will not stand for it."

"They followed you to Westeros. In Westeros they must become Westerosi," he argues.

"Out of my sight," she explodes in waves of fury. "Who do you think you are?"

Clenching his jaw, Jon barely keeps himself from answering. But the Queen has already exiled him. It would matter little whether he speaks or not.

* * *

Ghost growls at the approach of the other person, ears perking. Jon merely slides a hand along the rumbling beast's back. "Just a while longer. Until Viserion is returned," he promises, without even looking behind.

"There is already words spreading within the keep that the Queen has kicked her favourite without." The voice is mockingly sweet. It's meant to pour salt on the wounds. Or at least that is what Jon thinks.

"The world always whispers," he counters with a shrug. "It makes no matter to me."

"But to many others it does." He fells the pressure of her hold on his arm but still does not look at her.

* * *

Harry helps his wife down, his hold gentle upon Sansa's trim middle. They smile at one another, a quiet, unobtrusive sight. Once she is on her feet, his hold lingers a few moments longer, fingers brushing against the thick wool of her dress.

These are people who have lived through the winter. These are the children of a long war. That they can still and do smile like they do is amazing.

For once he wishes he could do so as well.

But he cannot. Mayhap he is just not meant to be happy. Any sort of joy bleeds out long before he can attempt to keep it. Jon sighs.


End file.
